“Thank you for the meeting, Miss Scott,” I murmur. I kiss her slowly, like I’ve got all the time in the world.
I leave before I change my mind and take her again.
God, this bloody woman.
38
under the lights
SWIM BY CHASE ATLANTIC
I hate this.
I always hate events like this—with red carpets, cameras flashing, everyone wanting a piece of me. It’s all fake smiles and hollow chatter. But tonight it’s even worse.
I’m here alone.
I always bring someone, just to soften the blow. Someone to move me along when it gets uncomfortable. But tonight it just didn’t feel right.
I walk up the red carpet, my shoes making a faint thud like I’m dragging myself unwillingly into this event. The lights flashing from the cameras are coming from almost every direction, and they’re blinding.
All I can focus on is the fact that I have no one. The first reporter lurches forward, tugging at my arm, microphone in hand.
“Oliver!” she says, smiling at me. “You look great tonight. Who are you here with?”
I freeze. That didn’t take long.
“Uh, uh… it’s, uh… just me tonight,” I mumble.
The camera flashes again, and I can feel the heat on my face. Rapid-fire questions start coming from every direction now.
“Where’s your date tonight?” a voice calls out.
I chuckle nervously. “I, uh… it’s just, uh…” My voice trails off and I can feel my mind starting to spiral. I can’t seem to keep my words straight and all I can think about is the hand I wish was in mine.
Another reporter steps toward me, firing off questions before I can catch my breath. “Great season so far, Oliver. What’s been the best part for you?”
I wipe my hands on the sides of my suit, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of my jacket. I feel a weight on my chest closing in on me.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s been, uh… a really great season, you know? A lot of uh… progress. And goals. And, uh, yeah… just got to keep pushing.” I’m so painfully aware of how much I’m rambling, but I can’t stop myself. I need to get out of here.
More questions get fired at me, and all I want to do is say “fuck it” and high-tail it out of the event. I can’t string together a single coherent answer, but the questions just keep coming. My pulse is racing, my mouth is too dry, and I can’t figure out if the sweat on my neck is hot or cold.
Then, just as I feel like I might suffocate under the pressure, I see her out of the corner of my eye.
Addison.
She appears through the chaos like it parts for her. She glides confidently through the throng of photographers. Cameras flash around her, and the way the light hits her makes her look like a dream.
My fucking angel.
She’s wearing this dress that just hugs every inch of her body, like it was made for her skin. A rich, royal blue satin gown with delicate, thin straps and a thigh-high slit that makes my stomach drop. Her blue eyes are even more piercing, and her brown hair is pulled back into a low bun with loose strands around her face. She’s utterly breathtaking and grounding all at once.
She locks eyes with me, and the chaos disappears. The weight lifts from my chest, and I finally exhale. She’s just steady, like an anchor in the media storm.
Addison takes my arm, guiding me through the media rope line with ease.
“I’ve got you, Ollie,” she whispers, loud enough only for me to hear. “Just breathe.”
